See The World
by Brighid45
Summary: Dana's going on vacation, and House is giving her a hard time. Could there be another reason why he's resisting the delights of August in the country? This story is set in the Disciplineverse: plenty of angst, humor, drama and a little romance on the side.
1. Chapter 1

_Day to day where do you want to be_

' _cause now you're trying to pick a fight_

 _with everyone you need . . ._

 _August 8th_

"I'd like to spend two weeks at the cottage."

Greg doesn't look up from the ball game on tv. This is a conversation he's done his best to avoid, but the inevitable has now come round at last. "Mmpf," he grunts, and returns his attention to the screen, only to have the picture disappear.

"Much as you might like to continue to ignore me, I need to discuss this with you." Gardener places the remote on the coffee table. "Give me five minutes, please."

Greg sits back with arms folded. "Take all the time you want."

"I'll put it another way, then: please listen to me for five minutes. After this I won't speak of it again." She faces him and waits. With a loud sigh he turns toward her a bit and uses the opportunity to study her. Her outward appearance is the same as usual: thick fair hair, the color of old coins, pinned back in a french pleat; subtle makeup, stylish outfit that doesn't go overboard . . . and yet under it all he can sense tiredness. There are few outward signs-a little droop to her shoulders, maybe the fine lines around her eyes are a bit more obvious—but it's there all the same.

"Continue," he says after a few moments.

She nods. "I'm taking the second half of August as a holiday. The garden at the country place needs tending and harvesting. I don't expect you to come with me, I know you hate it there—"

"Whoa whoa whoa," he keeps his tone mild. "I don't remember expressing an opinion one way or the other."

"Any time we've visited in the last year you've complained loudly about the lack of conveniences, the utter silence, the terrible internet, and anything else that comes to mind." Gardener picks a bit of lint off her slacks. Greg sits back. He has to admit he's a little surprised by this comment.

"That doesn't mean I hate it." It occurs to him that perhaps he's been somewhat cavalier with his attitude. The cottage is his woman's DIY project, a special place she created with her own hands and a great deal of hard work and sacrifice. She holds it in high regard and derives immense satisfaction from its continued existence. Of course he knows it's a recreation of the home she longs for from her childhood, but then it's not his job to understand her motives beyond any effect on their relationship. All he needs to know is that she sees it as sacred space, and at least dredge up a modicum of respect.

Still, if he cedes any ground at this point, she'll push him to do what she wants. He's wise to her ways now; she'll wear him down with hints and gentle persuasion. And while he isn't averse to staying at that damn hovel buried in the wilds of rural Pennsylvania, he'll fight it just on principle.

"I'll be spending my two weeks off there," Gardener says. "You're welcome to join me, but if you decide otherwise that's fine."

 _Oh, here we go._ This is a slippery slope. If he agrees and doesn't show up, he's toast. If he goes with her and makes even one derogatory remark, he's burnt toast. "Doesn't matter if I do or don't. You've already decided I'm a hopeless jerk."

"No, I haven't. Not yet, anyway." She gets to her feet in that graceful way he both admires and envies, and puts the remote within reach.

"We're in the middle of a heat wave. You're gonna make me sweat to death just so you can dig up your turnips and pretend you're a French peasant."

"As I said, it's your choice." She looks down her nose at him. In the soft evening light she is beautiful, even with that wry expression in place, the one that hides much deeper feelings. "I'll be leaving on the fifteenth in the morning. That's all." She hesitates. He says nothing. There is a brief, awkward silence. "We can eat in half an hour." Her words hold quiet resignation now.

"Good to know." And he turns the tv on.

Gardener's made steak, wild rice and a big salad for dinner, with zinfandel ready to pour. As always, she takes her time while he shovels in two large helpings. They don't talk much, but that's not unusual; Greg keeps an eye on her as he eats, but she doesn't pout or sulk or even look annoyed. She's herself—funny, gracious, not above the occasional teasing remark. And that makes him even more paranoid.

"You're studying me like a bug under a microscope. I shouldn't have said anything until the day before." She sounds resigned again. "You know, it would be wise to take both cars. That way you can come and go as you please."

He takes a mouthful of wine. It's good, earthy and bold but not too acidic, a fine match for the grilled steak. "That's very accommodating of you," he says after a brief silence.

"Greg." When he looks at her she looks back, her gaze steady and direct. "This is not your childhood. No enforced journeys, no dictates. I need some time off from my work and city life—"

"And me." He slips it in before she can say anything else.

"If I wanted time off from you I wouldn't have invited you to come with me." She offers him a smile, slow and sweet. "I do enjoy your company, you know." Those grey eyes are so full of affection—no, love-all for him, and it shocks him every time, because he doesn't deserve it. "Let me know what you think tomorrow." And she leaves it at that.

Later, when he's settled on the couch with a shot of bourbon and his guitar, he picks a few random chords while he ponders the whole thing whether he wants to or not. Of course he has no real choice here. If he stays home, she'll hold it against him. But if he goes . . . He sighs and takes a sip of Booker's.

It isn't that he doesn't like the cottage. Despite his disparagements it's a comfortable, charming home, surrounded by beauty on all sides. He feels welcome there; now that he's got a study of his own, created from the second bedroom, it's his place too. And with the keyboard, a tv and a big sofa to sleep on, he has nothing to complain about.

But it isn't the actual building that bothers him. It's the isolation. It makes him anxious. Yeah, it has music and the tv and computer, but no real distractions—no cases or puzzles to solve. He needs them like he needs oxygen. If he has nothing to focus on, the pain takes over and he won't be able to escape.

This is an absurd emotional reaction, he knows it. But there it is all the same, and he remembers why, even if he won't admit it even to himself. He fingers a chord, hears the harmonic overtones. Other, older memories crowd in, and he can't extricate them any more than he can tease apart the frequencies which make up the notes. His main squeeze is generous to suggest using two cars. But they've never stayed at the cottage for more than a weekend or a few days. Two weeks . . . his palms go clammy at the very idea.

On a growl of disgust at his weakness Greg sets the guitar aside, downs the last of the bourbon, and gets to his feet. It's late, after midnight in fact. While he's free of consults for the time being and has no real need to be in bed before the small hours, to stay up and ponder the problem at hand holds no appeal.

When he reaches the bedroom, the night stand lamp is on. It reveals Gardener stretched out asleep. Next to the water carafe sit her reading glasses and a book— _La Maison de Claudine_. It figures she'd read Colette, and in the original French too. That does nothing for his peace of mind. Colette is comfort food for her, and this book in particular; it's a personal favorite, he's seen her read this battered copy on several occasions, most often when she's feeling stressed or sad. She misses her mother, and that makes him nervous.

He strips off down to his undies and leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor. The TENS unit needs some attention, he's neglected it for a few days and he doesn't want to toss and turn all night. He limps into the bathroom and changes out the battery, perches on the toilet and takes off the pads and cleans them, checks his skin for sores or problems, then replaces the pads and fixes the settings on the unit, which is clipped to the waistband of his briefs. When the pain fades he lets go a silent sigh of relief. It's worth the minor annoyance of underwear just to be free of the shrill keen of butchered nerves.

Greg returns to the bedroom and climbs into bed, careful to be quiet. As he eases against his pillows he glances over at Gardener. She is awake; her expression holds neither condemnation nor irritation. "How bad is the pain?" Her soft voice holds concern.

"You're reading Colette." He brings up the sheet, more out of habit than a need for cover.

"Yes." She moves a bit closer and takes his hand in hers. Her fingers are cool and dry. "I miss my mother." He says nothing, unsure if he should respond. Gardener gives his hand a little caress. "Not everything I do is a reaction to you." He can hear the smile in her voice. "This time of year _maman_ comes to mind more clearly, that's all. I just wish I could talk to her. A few hours together over a cup of coffee and a basket of rolls with her fresh apricot jam . . . it was her favorite breakfast." Her words hold a quiet pain he's heard only on rare occasions. He rubs the back of her hand with his thumb, a slow caress.

"What was she like?"

"Warm," Gardener says after a few moments. "Funny. Generous. We had all the stray cats in the neighborhood at our kitchen door for handouts each morning. My father would grumble that _maman_ bought fish just to feed them and it was an extravagant expense. But we never had any trouble with mice." She falls silent for a moment. "There was a book in every room. She was always reading. She loved her garden . . ." Her voice trails off, returns. "One of my earliest memories is of eating fresh peas with her, sitting in her lap in the morning sunshine. Feeling happy."

"That's why you want to go to the cottage," he says after a time.

"That's part of it, yes. But . . ." She pauses to find the right words, a trait he's always enjoyed. She takes the time to say exactly what she means. "In my work I deal nearly every day with people who are struggling. Sometimes it rubs off. I need time away, to regain perspective."

"You could do that here. I'd be happy to provide distraction."

"That's a very generous offer." She leans in a bit and kisses him, a slow, sweet ministration that leaves him all a-tingle.

"But it's not enough." He presses a tender little buss to the corner of her mouth, just to see what she'll do.

"Right now it could be." The smile in her voice is back, only bigger. Her arms slip around him, and she brings him close.

They make love in a leisurely fashion, content to explore well-known curves and planes, taste each other, leave kisses as they move together. When release comes it's a slow bloom of pleasure, mellow as moonlight, subtle and sweet. They lie together, as their breaths mingle and slow.

"Still want to desert me?" he dares to ask. She chuckles.

"I'm not deserting you, as you well know." She traces the line of his jaw with a fingertip. "All this effort just to make me feel guilty. Impressive but unnecessary."

"So you feel bad already, and I just wasted my time."

"Something like that." She touches his bottom lip. "I'm not complaining though. I like the way you waste time."

"Damn." Greg trails his fingers over her forearm. "It was worth a try."

"Gregory." She turns on her side to face him. "This is my choice, not yours. You are free to come with me, or stay home. Or visit for the weekend. Whatever you decide is fine. You don't need to—to pick a fight with me over this."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"It is, yes." She doesn't sound angry, though. "I'd expect nothing less."

He snorts softly. "Great. So now I'm an instigator."

"No, that's not it." She falls silent a moment. "You've been wounded deeply a number of times by people you trusted. It's difficult to forget the lessons those scars teach."

He doesn't know what to make of this comment; it hits too close to home right now, something he'd rather not admit. "That's the therapist speaking."

"It's also a good friend who knows a bit of your history." She kisses the hinge of his jaw. "Think about what I've said. That's all I ask."

He tries hard not to do that, until sleep carries him away at last.


	2. Chapter 2

_(Thanks to all the guest reviews, your kind words are very much appreciated as always. I love writing for House and Dana, and am thoroughly delighted when other people read my scribblings and enjoy the stories. Hope you like the next chapter. -B)_

 _You seem like a soldier_

 _who's lost his composure_

 _you're wounded and play a waiting game_

 _in no man's land_

 _no one's to blame . . ._

 _August 12th_

James exited the elevator and strode down the hall, his mind on the afternoon's schedule. He'd managed to clear most of his backlog over the last week, and now he was ready to write up some case notes, look over next week's take-ins, and then head for home. Maybe he'd stop at the liquor store on the way and pick up a bottle of _pinot grigio_ to go with the shrimp he planned to make for dinner.

Keys at the ready, he started to unlock the door to his office-to find it already open. Surprise warred with caution. He used his foot to give it a little kick. The door swung in to reveal House draped across his couch, a mug of coffee— _my_ _mug_ , James noted with some exasperation—in hand.

"About time you showed up." House sipped the coffee and eyed James over the rim of the mug. "Slacker."

"And a good afternoon to you too." James set down his briefcase and glanced at the coffeemaker. A half inch of tar bubbled in silence at the bottom of the carafe. "I hope your budget includes another replacement for my pot."

"Using your stash of medical mary jane for yourself and expecting your best friend to pony up, who knew you were such a cheapskate. Shame on you, Wilson." House slurped the dregs of his coffee and sat up, hand on thigh. James narrowed his eyes.

"You're hurting more than usual."

"Nope." House held out the mug. "More."

"You're perfectly capable . . ." James stopped. "Never mind. Gimme the damn thing." He swiped the mug from House's hand and went to the coffeemaker. "Aren't you supposed to be off hobnobbing with the medical elite of the Northeast Corridor? They have better coffee. And doughnuts."

"Good point," House said with far too much cheerfulness. "I must be here for your sparkling wit."

"My sparkling ability to put up with you, you mean." James set down the mug and eased the carafe from the warming pad. He rummaged in the cabinet for the spare pot tucked away in the back. "What do you want?"

"Why Jimmy, such cynicism. Maybe I'm just visiting an old friend to catch up on hospital gossip and your latest score at the nurses station."

"That's not your usual method, so why change things now?" James hauled out the canister of grounds, opened the lid and peered inside: just enough for a half-pot. He'd have to put coffee on his emergency shopping list. Aloud he said "I think your middle name is 'Ulterior Motive'." He gave House a glance. "So why are you here exactly?"

"I just said 'sparkling wit'—"

"It can't be money, you're making a nice living off consults from what I hear. Cuddy's been telling anyone who will listen that she can't afford you now." James opened the top of the coffeemaker and took out the old filter. He wrapped it in a napkin and deposited it in the appropriate waste bin, took a new filter from the plastic bag. "It certainly isn't loneliness."

House didn't answer right away. "Ahah."

"What 'ahah'?"

"Ahah ahah. You're still jealous of my main squeeze."

James shot him a sidelong glance, both amused and annoyed by this pronouncement. "Why, yes. Yes, I am. Poison her, stow her in my trunk and bury her in the Pine Barrens jealous."

"So that's where you've dumped all your enemies." House sounded both amused and a bit apprehensive. "Should've known. The real question is why none of your exes has met that fate."

"Too obvious. The trick is to take your time. Revenge is a dish that's better served cold." James dumped the last of the grounds into the filter and closed the lid. He poured a bottle of purified water into the reservoir and flipped the brew switch. "I learned that from you, by the way."

"You did not!" House sounded offended. "I like my vengeance spicy hot with a beer or six on the side."

"Says the man who invented the long con." James turned around, folded his arms and gave House a level look. "I ask yet again, why are you here?"

"Visiting my bestie." House returned James's stare. "I don't see you every day now. It's much harder to keep tabs on your machinations."

"Such concern. It would be touching, if it wasn't such a blatant lie." James lowered his brows. "I want the truth."

House stared down at his feet. James noted he wore new trainers, a modest pair by House's standards: black with a few splashes of color here and there. "Could be I'm going away."

"For good?" James raised his brows. "At last, a dream come true."

"For two weeks." House let his cane slip through his hands, so the rubber tip bounced on the carpet: _thump-thump-thump_.

"When?" The coffeemaker gurgled and hissed.

"Mid to late August." _Thump-thump-thump_.

"I see. I presume you'll be tied up in m'lady's dungeon that whole time while she tries out her new leather whips on you." James took a clean mug from the cabinet and put in a scant teaspoon of stevia. He hated the stuff, but at least it didn't settle on his hips the way sugar did.

"The correct term is flogger." House didn't look up. "We'll be . . . away."

"Well, what does that mean? Atlantic City away, or further afield?"

"Can't tell you." _Thump-thump-thump._

James turned to look at him as the last of the water ran through the grounds. "You're being outrageously mysterious. I should probably stop asking questions now, since you're dangling this vacation in front of me like a new toy. That always means trouble."

"Am not. Just letting you know I won't be around for two weeks. I'll be stuck in the wilds of Bucks county instead." House got to his feet. "Thanks for being such a supportive and understanding friend." He came forward, grabbed James's coffee and slurped a mouthful, choked and spat it out. "What the _fuck_ , Wilson! Are you trying to poison me?!" He slapped the mug down on James's desk and made for the door.

"See you around," James loaded his words with patent false cheer. House hunched his shoulders and limped off down the corridor. James watched him go, a bit perplexed. "What was _that_ all about?" he muttered, and used a napkin to blot spots of coffee from the carpet. He made a mental note to let the night cleaning crew know about the stains, and took his mug next door to the conference room sink.

By the time he made it home a few hours later, his brain was crammed with theories for House's peculiar behavior. He knew it was what House wanted, and also understood from long experience that disaster waited at the end of whatever path down which he was being led—but on the slender chance that House really did need his help, he owed it to his friend to figure things out.

After dinner he ended up in front of his computer. The broad hint for Bucks county hadn't fallen on deaf ears. As far as he knew, House didn't own property aside from his Baker street digs. That mean it had to be Gardener's. House had bragged several times about his girlfriend's wealth; no doubt she had a second home tucked away somewhere.

He'd learned a thing or two from his marriage to Bonnie. She might be the world's worst realtor, but she'd excelled at property searches. After an hour or so he had the information he sought. Gardener owned a small home in Buckingham Township, along with several acres of land. James stared at the paperwork. _Real estate there ain't exactly cheap_. She had a place in Philly too, a renovated and expanded Federal-era house she'd converted into a combination office and home. He found it telling that she'd decided to keep her own living spaces instead of moving in with House—a wise decision. Anyone who stayed with the man for any length of time needed a bolthole to escape the madness.

James sat back and stared at the screen. _So why did he practically shove all those hints at me about this second place?_ It made no sense. Unless . . . _He never denied my joke about his girlfriend trying out her—what did he call them?—floggers, that's it-on him. In fact, he looked a little frightened. Could she really be using him?_ _Hurting_ _him?_ But that made no sense. He'd never seen Gardener be anything but gentle and caring where House was concerned. She'd stayed with him through detox, for god's sake . . . James ran his hand over his face and tried to order his thoughts. _She couldn't . . . she wouldn't abuse him. Would she?_ And why would House put up with that kind of thing anyway? He'd guessed House's childhood hadn't been idyllic—the trip to John House's funeral and the revelation that House was illegitimate had offered substantial clues—but had he been abused to such an extent he felt a need to continue it into adulthood?

He talked to Amber about it that night. "None of this feels right. Wish you were here to give me advice. You'd probably kick my ass for being such a shmuck." He smiled a little. "Can't help it, I guess. He drives me crazy with his stupid games, but . . . he's still my friend. God knows why."

Morning came all too soon after a troubled sleep. James lay in bed and watched the sunshine ascend through the window. The weekend loomed ahead, empty and quiet. At least he didn't have to face the commute to work. That left shopping and laundry. Breakfast first, though.

He munched dry toast and drank sugarless tea while he looked through the circulars. Someone had pod coffeemakers on sale; his assistant had hinted for some time about one for the office. He added it to his list as a provisional item and continued his search for bargains, all the while aware of worry tucked away at the back of his mind.

It was a lovely morning, warm even for high summer, with clear blue skies overhead. James made short work of the shopping. Most of the time he enjoyed the process, to some extent at least. There was a certain satisfaction in the discovery of bargains and new tastes. Today however, he wanted nothing more than to get the basics and return home, where he could make a plan to help House somehow. Even as he thought it, he knew it was a ludicrous idea. The man was more than capable of taking care of himself. This whole situation reeked of manipulation. And yet, and yet—what if it wasn't that at all, but a genuine cry for help? He'd misinterpreted signals and warning signs before House's mental breakdown and stay in Mayfield; he couldn't let it happen again.

That evening he placed a call to Cuddy. "I need a couple of weeks off, mid to late August."

"Hello to you too." Cuddy sounded exasperated. "This is pretty late notice."

"You already know I'll make sure someone covers my cases. I also have twenty extra clinic hours on my side. I'll let you erase ten of them for this."

"I'm surprised House didn't steal them before he left. And by the way, you'll give me all twenty."

"Ten," James said in a firm tone. "If we're gonna haggle, remember you still owe me brownie points from last year, when I covered the lecture at the symposium for that idiot Goldman."

"I owe you nothing! You blew off that seminar in June on new advances in pediatric oncology—"

"—because it was a waste of my time. You just wanted me to schmooze the guy who organized it. Why should I do your dirty work? You could make a Skype call and negotiate."

Cuddy snorted. "Face to face is always better."

"Funny, all my ex-wives say that too." Wilson rubbed his forehead. "Come on, I've got a ton of vacation accrued. Let me use up some of it."

There was a brief silence. "What's going on? You never throw unscheduled time off at me like this. Usually I get a yearly agenda the first of January." Cuddy's voice softened a bit. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Just—just need a little vakay, that's all. I've had more terminal patients than usual this year. It can be tough to handle them all." James gave her a qualified lie. He did have a few patients with end-stage diagnoses, but that fact didn't bother him. He felt nothing for once, and that worked out well for everyone, himself included.

"I understand. All right. Two weeks off and fifteen clinic hours."

" _Ten_."

"Fine. Ten." Cuddy sighed. "Send your assistant over Monday morning, I'll give her the paperwork." She paused. "Try not to get into too much trouble with House."

James almost smiled. "What makes you think—"

"Spare me. Just look before you leap, okay? I can't afford to lose you too."

 _That's good advice_ , he thought later, as he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. _Too bad I won't be able to follow it._


	3. Chapter 3

_Empty handed, surrounded by a senseless scene_

 _With nothing of significance_

 _Besides the shadow of a dream . . ._

 _August 15th_

Dana pulled into the foot of the driveway and put the car in park for a moment. It was a gorgeous day, already almost hot but sunny and clear, with a soft breeze. The only sound was the rustle of leaves and a few early cicadas and crickets. She took a breath, let it out. Then she put the car in drive and continued on to the cottage.

It felt good to unlock the door and go inside with her overnight bag. The air was a stuffy, a little stale; she set down the bag and opened several windows. This was a ritual she enjoyed, to wake the house from its intermittent summer slumber. Later she would go out to her garden and take a look at her crops, bring in some flowers and herbs.

She'd just gone into the bedroom when she heard a motorcycle roar up the driveway. Greg had arrived, and much earlier than she'd expected. He'd still been asleep when she'd left a couple of hours ago; she'd expected him to wait till the weekend to make a token appearance and return to Princeton after a day or two. He would want coffee and breakfast even though he'd no doubt made himself something at home, and left the dirty dishes in the sink for her to discover on her return. She could offer fresh eggs at least. The little farm stand by the side of the road a mile or so from the cottage had been well stocked with a cooler full of brown eggs in cartons, alongside vegetables still covered with dew. Later she would bake a tea loaf or some cookies, if the day wasn't too hot.

Greg stumped into the bedroom a few minutes later, to dump his duffel by the bed. "Thanks for waking me up."

"You came to bed late. I thought you might enjoy sleeping in." Dana set aside a pair of khaki shorts and a flowered tank top. She took off her slacks and stepped into the shorts.

"Making decisions for me already."

"I told you when I'd be leaving. You could have set your alarm if you wanted to go with me." She unbuttoned her blouse and picked up the tank top. "Have you had breakfast?"

" _Look_ at me." Greg sounded almost angry now. Dana turned to face him. He glowered at her, but it was clear he was anxious under the annoyance. "You took off at the fucking crack of dawn and now you're determined to be nicey-nice despite any provocation that comes your way. That isn't a vacation, it's avoidance."

Dana tossed the blouse on the bed. "What I do during my time off is my business. I don't want to fight with you or play power games for your amusement. If you find my attitude unacceptable, you're free to go back to Princeton. I'd hoped—" She stopped, her voice not quite steady. "Do whatever you like." She pulled on the tank top and headed to the kitchen.

She'd just adjusted the flame under the skillet when Greg said behind her, "Now you're mad at me."

"No I'm not. That's what you expect me to be." She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the fridge. "How about an omelet? I bought some—"

"I don't expect anything, I know you well enough by now to read the signs. You're mad."

Dana took a deep breath. She shut the fridge door and turned around, folded her arms, and stared at Greg. "Perhaps I choose not to let anger take over."

"Oh, come on! You can't turn emotions on and off like a light switch!" Greg glared at her.

"You know perfectly well that this is not about shutting off feelings. It's about choosing what to do with them when they show up. And my choice is not to play this game with you, where you needle me until I lose my temper, then you say 'Ahah! I knew it, you hate me'." She gave him a direct look. "Do you want breakfast or not?"

They ended up with omelets and coffee at the kitchen table, now awash in sunshine. Greg squinted at the light but said nothing. Dana ignored him and took another bite of eggs, cheese and mushrooms.

"Little bright in here," Greg said after a few moments. "Great way to get cataracts."

"You can always wear sunglasses." Dana sipped her coffee. "I'd like to go to Rice's today and have lunch in New Hope."

"Great. An overpriced flea market and teeny-tiny portions at some frou-frou place in a tourist trap town. Excellent choices."

Dana contemplated the mushroom on her fork. "I'd planned to go to Triumph Brewing for a cold beer and a sandwich platter. Nothing frou-frou about that."

"A bribe? That's so beneath you." Greg shoveled a forkful of omelette.

"It's not a bribe. I enjoy sandwiches and beer, as you well know. And I enjoy your company. Or I used to, before you decided to become a pain in the ass." Dana sipped her coffee. "I'll leave around ten."

When she left the house, it was alone. As she started the car and headed down the driveway, she struggled with hurt and disappointment. She'd hoped he would at least agree to meet her for lunch.

After half an hour spent at the flea market, she felt a little better. Her basket held the season's first tomatoes as well as bits and pieces she'd picked up at various tables—a lead crystal suncatcher, some costume jewelry, an amethyst geode. She'd talked with the sellers, just inconsequential chit-chat, but it was enjoyable all the same.

She found a rare open parking spot in the center of town, and it was even under a shade tree—a good omen, or so she told herself. New Hope bustled with tourists and locals, all ready to enjoy the nice day. People wandered in and out of shops as they talked and laughed, bags in hand. Dana walked with them and peered into windows at purses and shoes, scarves, dresses, fresh loaves of bread, mugs and cookware, and books. One shop display caught her eye: an assortment of jams and jellies. She stepped inside and paused as a fragrant reek of raspberries and lemon filled the air. With a smile she moved toward the counter.

Thirty minutes later she left the store, her bag packed with several jars of apricot jam—a treasure she couldn't wait to taste on fresh bread—as well as blackberry and bay leaf jam, lemon curd, apple jelly, and peach butter. She made a stop at her favorite bakery to pick up a boule and some brioche, and headed off to the leather shop down the street. She had an order of floggers ready to take home, but she also wanted to look for a messenger bag.

She spent an enjoyable hour in the shop and added a butter-soft pair of gloves to her other purchases. It was quick work to make a stop at the car and pack everything away in the trunk. Her belly rumbled as she locked up; lunch was next on the agenda.

It was a short walk to the brew pub. As Dana drew closer, she passed a familiar motorcycle parked in a handicapped spot. So Greg had decided to take her up on the offer of lunch, no doubt to continue his attempts to annoy her . . . She set the thought aside and entered the pub.

Greg sat in one of the booths toward the back. He'd already had at least two beers; empty pints bore silent witness. Dana slid into the seat opposite him. "You changed your mind. I'm glad."

"No you're not. You're wondering how we're gonna get the bike home because I'll be over the legal limit by the end of lunch." Greg stared at her, his vivid gaze full of challenge. "Since you're paying, I'll have another beer and a burger with double fries."

Dana felt her good mood evaporate. Without a word she got to her feet and left the booth. "Hey! You forgot to leave me some money!" Greg called after her. She ignored him and went to the register.

"A BLT and a double order of sweet potato fries to go, please." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Greg headed toward her. She handed the clerk her card.

"I came all this way just to have lunch with you." Greg stopped in front of her and leaned on his cane. "And now you're deserting me."

"I refuse to play this game." Dana accepted her card back and turned to face him. "You're an adult, you can figure out a way to get home that won't involve you driving. You can also pay for your own beer."

"And now you're mad."

Dana closed her eyes for a moment. "No, actually I'm . . . I'm hurt that you would take my chance to relax and rest, and destroy it because you can't resist the urge to test my limits. I hope you're enjoying this. I'm not."

Greg shifted his gaze from hers. "It would be more fun if you'd play along." He sounded both guilty and annoyed, but something else lay behind it. Dana noted her observation, but wasn't in the mood to explore further; she was exasperated and on edge.

"No, it wouldn't." Her food arrived at that point—expedited by the clerk no doubt, who watched both Dana and Greg as if they were unexploded bombs. Dana accepted the sack, turned on her heel and left the pub, prey to a number of emotions, none of them pleasant. Greg didn't follow her, for which she was grateful.

She stopped on the way to buy a few things at the little grocery store she liked. When she arrived at home, it took some time to unload the car and get everything put away. After she'd finished, she found her appetite gone. She put the lunch order on the counter to heat up later, grabbed her straw hat, gloves and harvest basket from the shelf by the door, and made her way through the back patio. It was hot out now, but she welcomed the feel of light and heat on her skin as she stepped into the strong sunshine.

The garden wasn't too far from the kitchen. During renovation, she'd found an area that looked as if it might once have been used for vegetables. She'd built a raised bed on the site, brought in good topsoil and added compost, worked in sand and other soil amendments, and set up a long trellis for vines and climbing crops. Once the garden was finished, she had a tall fence with a gate installed to protect the plants from deer and other animals. She'd visited through the spring and early summer as well, to water, weed and cultivate. All her hard work had paid off; now in mid-August, she had a fine bounty of beans, tomatoes, melons and cucumbers as well as rosemary, basil, thyme, fennel, marjoram and lavender. She would be able to make her own blend of _herbes de Provence_ this year.

After a third trip to the kitchen to unload her basket, Dana took a break. She sat in the old wooden chair she'd trash-picked a few weeks earlier, stripped off her gloves, and closed her eyes. Tree leaves rustled and sighed, the sound muted in the warm muggy air; it would storm later. The sharp, clean scent of lavender and basil drifted through now and then, with little hints of warm tomato leaves and green growing things. The fecund smell took her back to her childhood and her mother's garden.

"He's a strong man, like your father." Her mother sat next to her in the old wicker chair she'd kept on the terrace in good weather. "You can't afford to antagonize him."

" _Maman,_ I won't put up with games and manipulation the way you did." A surge of anger filled Dana for a moment. "You made life miserable because you wouldn't stand up to Papa."

"What a thing to say! I showed my husband the respect he deserved."

"And he never showed you any in return." Dana leaned back. "I miss you."

"The way you're acting, you'll forgive me if I don't believe you." _Maman_ tilted her head and looked down her nose at Dana. "Do you love him?"

"Oh, yes." Dana looked out over the hillside. Clouds moved over the expanse of green: light, dark, then light again. "It makes no sense, but I do."

"I'm glad. You've always needed a man. You've finally found the right one."

Dana smiled a little. "I wish it was that simple."

"You're talking to yourself. That's never a good sign." Greg spoke behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

_You sound like an old joke_

 _You're worn out, a bit broken_

 _Asking me time and time again_

 _When the answer's still the same . . ._

It's taken some doing, but he's made it to the cottage. The house is quiet, though the kitchen holds evidence that Gardener's been in residence for some time; the fridge has been restocked, and several jars of jams and jellies sit on the counter, along with produce from the garden. But she's not in the living room or bedroom, and her straw hat and garden gloves are gone from the shelf by the door. He checks out her lunch though, and liberates half the sandwich. It's pretty good with a cold beer to wash it down. Once he's finished, he goes in search of his girlfriend.

He finds her in her home-grown jungle, seated in a battered old chair she found on some trash-pick adventure, no doubt. She appears to hold a conversation, one-sided since no one's there that he can see.

"You're talking to yourself, that's never a good sign," he says, to signal his presence. He stands by the gate, unsure if he should enter; this is her domain. To his surprise she gets to her feet and turns to come toward him. She looks charming with that beat-up, sweat-stained old straw hat perched on her head. There's a faint smear of dirt across the bottom of her chin.

"I'm glad you made it home safely," she says, and moves past him. She doesn't sound angry, but she's not all that welcoming either. He can't blame her for that—he's goaded her since they arrived. She has to break sometime.

So he follows her into the house to find her with the rest of the BLT on a plate, along with a pile of cold sweet potato fries. "Heat it up." He winces at how harsh he sounds. He hadn't meant to snap at her. Gardener says nothing, just sits at the table. The slight droop of her head, the way she looks down at her plate before she picks up the sandwich . . . It strikes him then that he's pushed her far beyond the point where he'd planned to stop. He's been told about this tendency toward tunnel vision for years now-at least Wilson never lets him forget it, but it doesn't register when he's in the middle of things.

On impulse he moves to the table, takes the seat opposite her. They sit there for a few moments in silence.

"How did you get the bike home?" she asks after a time.

"I didn't. It's parked in the VFW lot. I bribed the attendant to let me store it overnight in their garage." Greg reaches out to touch her, just a brush of his fingers over the back of her hand. "Finally used that stupid Lyft app you made me download."

She smiles a little. "Thank you."

He looks away, pleased for some reason. "I hope you're not really gonna eat that food cold."

They end up in the enclosed back porch with lunch—her half-sandwich and his fresh one, fries and chips, and cold beers. It's a warm day, but the breeze is cool. Cloud shadows chase over the hills, more of them piled up in the west. It'll storm later.

"Garden looks good." He takes a bite of pastrami on rye.

"You don't have to offer small talk." She sounds amused now. "I fully expect you to go watch the game after you've spent your obligatory twenty minutes with me, making things right."

Greg stares at her, surprised by this bit of candor. Maybe even a little hurt too. "'Obligatory.'"

"Yes." She sips her beer. "I'll take some things to the shelter food pantry this evening, if you—"

"You're deliberately changing the subject. I object to the term 'obligatory'."

"I don't see why." She takes a bite of her sandwich and looks out over the view. And then he gets it.

"Oh, aren't you clever," he says, both annoyed and amused. "I never figured you for the payment-in-kind type."

Gardener doesn't answer right away. "No. It's the truth."

"But your timing is suspect. You're telling me now after—"

"I know your patterns by now. You push until something breaks, then you make some kind of restitution as required by the situation, and record the results in your mental data pile. I'd expect nothing less from a scientist." She sounds unconcerned. Greg blinks. For once he's speechless.

"You know, you _are_ allowed to be human once in a while," he says when he can speak. "Yell at me, storm out of the room, cry. Whatever seems appropriate at the time."

"You'd like an emotional display because that's easier to dismiss. But it wouldn't be helpful to either one of us."

There's nothing he can say to refute this. "You're supposed to be on vacation, not shrinking my head."

"If you behave in a provocative manner, you invite analysis." She picks up some fries. "Would you like to come with me into town tonight? We could stop for pizza. Maybe a movie too, if you're up for it."

He knows when to admit defeat, if there's a good chance it will allow him to win the war eventually. "You think you're so smart."

"I know I'm so smart. But so are you. And that's the trouble." She munches the fries. The discussion is closed, that much is clear.

It is later on, when Gardener's gone off to take a nap and he's settled into the couch with a game on for distraction, that he realizes she has chosen once again to be gracious with him. Dislike her method all he wants, he has to admit she's good at it; there's no condescension, just the warm compassion he's come to expect from her. That puts him at a crossroad of sorts. He's half-decided not to push his woman any further, but the temptation to change his mind is strong. He could derive all sorts of entertainment out of her determination to behave in a rational manner. But every time he thinks of it, he gets that strange compression in his chest area. It's nothing physical, he's been checked over and declared fairly healthy for a man of his age and activity level with chronic pain and disability riders; despite all that he knows what it is, but doesn't want to put a name to it. Still, it's a warning: if he continues to pursue distraction at any cost, he'll lose her. That's too high a price to pay.

It's worrisome, this knowledge. He'd been alone for a long time before Gardener showed up. Even though they've lived together for a while now, he's still used to life on his own. He's not sure he likes the responsibility for someone else's happiness—and no matter how he tries to deny it, he's on the hook now for hers. It's frightening to hold someone else's heart this way. He's attempted it before, with disastrous consequences. But here he is, for better or worse. And it factors into his actions, whatever he decides. Besides, he has a sneaking suspicion she holds his heart too. Horrible sentimental notion, one he despises even as he acknowledges it.

Put that way, the choice is simple. He sighs and tips his head back. He'll have to find something else to keep him occupied.

Greg is wakened some time later by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He sits up, slow and careful. To his surprise he sees the storm front's come in and gone already. He slept through the whole thing, though it was strong enough to bring down some leaves and even a few small branches.

"I'll leave for town in about fifteen minutes." Gardener gives him a little caress and moves into the kitchen. Greg watches her bundle up extra produce with her usual graceful efficiency, until an urgent summons from his bladder sends him to the bathroom. Once he's emptied out he washes his face and hands, brushes his tee shirt for stray crumbs, and returns to the kitchen. In silence he follows Gardener to the car, and their evening adventure begins.

She stops at the shelter first. It's a well-thought-out hideyhole for abused women and children, situated on a dead-end street with just one way in or out, and surveillance cameras in evidence. There's a little open-air market in a garage bay that holds baskets of fresh bread, rolls and bagels, produce out front, and cans and boxes along with paper goods on shelves in the back. Kids run and play while the adults fill recycled post office totes with what they need. It's a pleasant, relaxed atmosphere. Gardener takes her bags of produce to the weigh station, and tells the clerk to register the contribution as anonymous—her usual procedure. Greg would accuse her of grandstanding, but he knows better. He also knows she'll slip the clerk a check for a nice sum, with the instruction to make that a nameless donation as well.

They stop at Nat's for pizza and wings. Before she gets out of the car Greg says "We can eat at the cottage." Gardener pauses with her hand on the door.

"Are you sure?" Her quiet voice holds mild concern, but nothing more.

He nods once and looks away as she gets out and goes into the shop. It's clear now she's doing her best to create distractions for him. He watches people walk by and struggles with this new knowledge. It both pleases and annoys the hell out of him. He can take care of himself . . . but she knows him and wants to help. " _Jesus_ ," he mutters, and glares at a mom with two kids as they walk by, ice cream cones in hand.

Eventually Gardener emerges from the shop laden with boxes and bags. They drive home without conversation, but it's a comfortable quiet for once. Shadows have begun to lengthen across the yard when they pull up to the front door.

"Is there a game on tonight?" Gardener sets the pizza on the counter and takes a couple of paper plates from the cupboard. "I wouldn't mind watching some baseball or footie."

"You don't have to try so hard." The words slip out before he can stop them. Gardener continues to set up dinner.

"You were willing to come with me on vacation." She opens a bag to reveal parmesan knots and a garlic butter dip. "Fair's fair. Besides, I like to spend time with you. I wish you'd accept that." He doesn't reply, because anything he says will sound mawkish or mocking, and he doesn't want to screw up their détente.

They end up on the couch to watch the Phils struggle against the Mets. Greg folds a slice of pizza and takes a huge bite. This is a pretty decent distraction, all things considered; good food, good woman next to him, and lousy baseball on tv. Two out of three . . . acceptable under the circumstances.

"You know, you could always bring your cases here to work on." Gardener pops a round of pepperoni off her slice and nibbles at it.

"I wouldn't dare to pollute the sacred space with anything as mundane as a paying job."

"Pfft." She waves her hand at him. "I do it all the time. You've seen my briefcase and laptop in evidence. This is a good place to work. You can think here. No one pestering you for paperwork, no phone calls unless you want to take them . . . it's nice."

He savors his pizza and considers it. It might be worth a try. He could run up to Princeton tomorrow, pick up his files. "Maybe."

Gardener says nothing more, but after a moment she rests her head against his arm.

Half hour or so later, he switches the channel and lands on an episode of _The Big Bang Theory_. He's about to keep going when one of the characters says something and Gardener giggles. That gives him pause; she almost never does that. Intrigued, he waits to see what she'll do.

"Romance ninja!" she snickers. "Let's have sex! Wooooooaaaa!" That startles a bark of laughter out of him too. She laughs even harder and snuggles in next to him.

They watch two more episodes, and by the end of the last one it's clear they'll both have a good night in more ways than one. They've got a five-point restraint system set up on the bed, and have used it in the past with excellent results. Maybe they'll try it out again tonight. "Meet you in the bedroom," Greg whispers. "Bring a new flogger with you, we'll break it in." Gardener flashes him a smile.

"I'll be there. Give me five minutes, I need to check the garden gate."

He hums under his breath as he trundles off to the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth and strips at record speed. He's down to his briefs when he hears a sound out by the road—a car. Nothing unusual about that; they do have neighbors a mile or so along the other end of the access road. Greg hooks his fingers in his waistband, then lifts his head when he hears the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel. And then he remembers: dangled bait, broad hints dropped in Wilson's office. " _Shit_ ," he groans, grabs his jeans and struggles into them, and limps to the living room as fast as he can. He's in time to hear a knock at the door, pulls it open and catches Wilson with hand raised to knock again. They stare at each other.

Greg speaks first. "What the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

Wilson lowers his hand. "Hello to you too." He looks just past Greg, and his eyes widen. "Uh-Doctor Gardener."

When Greg turns she stands in the entryway to the kitchen, her gardening gloves in one hand, a tomato in the other. She looks at both of them. Her expression is unreadable, remote. And then she smiles, a slow curl of the corners of her mouth. Oh, that's not a nice smile. Not at all. She hesitates, tucks her gloves in her pocket, sets the tomato on an end table and comes forward to greet their guest.


	5. Chapter 5

_(Many thanks for all the lovely reviews! Hope you continue to enjoy the story. -Brig)_

As Dana came forward, she forced herself to step back from the personal aspects of the encounter and let her professional mindset take over. The look of guilty, almost panicked consternation Greg had given her, covered over with a defiant stare, combined with the genuine bewilderment edged by calculation in James's expression, served up plenty of insight into the origins of this visit. Her best option was to play this straight and deal with Greg later.

"It's good to see you." She offered her hand to James, who took it and gave a tentative shake. Dana noted the way his fingers trembled just a bit at her touch.

"And you." James released her hand and looked around. "Your place—this is . . . nice."

"Thank you." Dana gestured at the couch. "Please sit down. May I offer you something? Iced tea, a beer?"

"Um . . . an iced tea would be great, thanks." James went to the couch and sat, perched on the edge of the cushion. He looked like a schoolboy sent to the principal's office. Dana went to the kitchen. As she opened the fridge, she heard Greg growl something, and James's short reply. It was clear neither party was happy. She extracted the tea pitcher and poured a glassful, added a couple of ice cubes, resisted the childish temptation to lick them first, and returned to the living room in time to see James run a hand over his hair. He straightened as she offered the glass. When she sat down next to him Greg glowered at her. She ignored him and kept her focus on James.

"It's lovely of you to stop by." That elicited a groan from Greg. Dana glanced at him, then back to James. "Is something wrong? Are you all right?"

"Oh god." James set the glass on the rug by his feet. "I'm sorry, Doctor Gardener—"

" _Dana_." She said it with gentle firmness. James nodded.

"Dana. Nothing's wrong—I—I just wanted to . . . to make sure House—" He hesitated.

"Someone hinted perhaps he was in need of help from a best friend?" Dana kept her tone neutral. After a few moments James dropped his gaze. He nodded and shifted his feet a bit. "I see." She looked at Greg then, a steady gaze she held until he began to fidget. "Whatever the reason, you're welcome."

"It's—it's late," James said. "I'd—maybe I should go back to Princeton, I just—"

"We don't have a spare room, but you'd be welcome to sleep on the couch." Dana smiled as James didn't quite hide a cringe. "It's fairly comfortable."

"He's not gonna sleep on the couch." Greg spoke at last. "Go home, Wilson. You _idiot_."

"Oh, so it's all right for you to invade my office, steal my coffee and then hint like mad that you might be in trouble?!"

"And you believed it!"

"What else was I supposed to think?" James got to his feet. "I haven't seen you in weeks, and then you show up—"

"That's _enough_." Dana raised her voice just a bit, and both men fell silent. "Whatever decision you make is fine with me. I'm going to bed, it's been a long day." She nodded at both Greg and James and made her way to the bedroom.

While she got ready for sleep, she heard bits of heated discussion from the two men in the living room. The level rose and fell, followed by silence. Dana climbed into bed and picked up her book as the door opened. Greg stood in the entry and stared at her, his expression mutinous. Under it lay apprehension, however; she could see his fear as it filled him.

"Come in." She patted the empty spot next to her. He didn't move right away. Then he entered, closed the door behind him and made his way to the bathroom, to emerge fifteen minutes later in his briefs. He dumped his clothes on the floor and came to the bed, but didn't get in.

"I bet you think you're being gracious." He glared at her. "Some honesty would be refreshing. You know you're pissed off."

Dana set down her book and peered at him over her reading glasses. "No, I'm not."

" _Yes,_ you are _._ You think this gives you some sort of moral high ground."

"You really are a great one for telling other people what they're feeling. I can assure you I'm not angry." That had surprised her too, when she'd first realized it. She was exasperated and impatient, but not furious. "I've been expecting this to happen for some time now."

Greg blinked. "You have."

"I mentioned during your first visit here that I'd made the decision to keep this place just for you and me. Naturally you'd have to challenge that statement."

"'Naturally.' That bookends 'obligatory'."

She considered his statement. "Mmm . . . true. Let's say then that your need to defy any and all authority made this decision for you." She looked up at him. "Do you plan to join me?"

"Is there any point?" Greg put a hand on his thigh and did his best to hide a wince.

"Of course there is." Dana moved the covers aside. With reluctance he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"So generous of you, Gandhi-ji."

She was tempted to respond to this jab, but decided to ignore it. "Is James planning to stay?"

"James is taking the couch tonight. At your suggestion." Greg lay down and rolled on his left hip to face her. "Not a single angry word. I'm impressed."

"Is there some reason why I should be angry?" She set her glasses atop her book and turned out the light.

Greg groaned. "Both you and Wilson live in denial. Come on, admit it. You're hiding behind that calm front you like to wear."

"I think we just had this discussion. You know, the one about you deciding what other people are feeling." Dana settled into her pillows and eased on her side so that she faced Greg. "If I'm upset, I'll tell you. You know that."

Greg said nothing for a few moments. "Go on, ask."

"Ask what?"

"You know. That stupid question, the one you always throw at me in situations like this."

Dana moved her pillow to a more comfortable position. "You mean trust. That's not a stupid question."

"It is when you haul it out nearly every time we hit a snag in the course of shacking up together." Greg lowered his voice. "Ask."

 _He needs this. It's become ritual for him now, reassurance. But he's also using it for his own ends._ "Do you trust me?"

"You know I do." He almost purred as he said the words.

"Good. See you in the morning." She closed her eyes.

There was a short silence. "I sat through three episodes of that stupid show just to get you hot for me, and now nothing." Greg exhaled. "Romance ninja? Let's have sex?" He sounded almost wistful.

"Good night, Greg."

It took both of them a while to settle. Greg was a light sleeper, prone to stay up through the small hours. Dana knew he was awake; she heard him sigh several times, not the theatrical noises he made when he wanted a reaction, but more a slow ramping-down of tension and anxiety. She drifted off too after a time.

It was early when Dana woke; the first tendrils of sunlight had begun to filter through the east window. She peered at Greg. He was out cold, his breathing slow and deep.

With care she got up, took an old tee shirt and shorts from the drawer where she kept her gardening clothes, and got dressed. She slipped out into the hallway and to the living room. James lay inert on the couch, just a shape under a blanket. Dana headed for the kitchen. She found a bottle of water in the fridge, retrieved her folding knife, hat, gloves and harvest basket, and went out.

It promised to be another clear, hot day; the sky overhead was a deep blue. Dana made her way down the path and opened the gate. The mingled scent of herbs and fresh dew greeted her, old and familiar friends. She put on her gloves and began her inspection. There was plenty of mint ready to cut, and basil as well. The green beans had already begun another crop; she would pick them later that evening. And there were enough beets to make a respectable batch of borscht.

"I always liked them buttered." _Maman_ picked a basil leaf, inhaled the fragrance, and took a nibble. "This would be lovely inside a roasted chicken with some lemons and garlic."

"Papa told you to make it that way. You just happened to like it too." Dana cut a few basil tops and added them to her basket.

"He worked hard to give us a comfortable life. It was the least I could do."

"He didn't care about that kind of thing. He obsessed over his music and expected everyone else to cater to him."

"And yet here you are, at a cottage you bought with his money." _Maman_ brushed a gentle hand over some lavender flowers.

"I never wanted him to do that! I make a good living on my own—" Dana stopped. "This is not about Papa."

She set the basket down, made her way to the chair and sat. The sun was already warm on her shoulders. Greg would scold her for the lack of sunscreen . . . _Greg_. She closed her eyes. _Am I really that angry with him over bringing James to the cottage? Has he seen something I couldn't?_ But somehow that didn't feel right. Her emotions were clear; a mild echo of the resentment she'd always felt about her father's indifference to home and family, exasperation with Greg over yet another attempt to play games with her, hurt at his breach of their private space. Still, she'd expected him to challenge her decision sooner or later anyway, so this development with James had come as no real surprise. It was another confirmation of the diagnosis she'd had at the back of her mind for some time now. But there was something else . . . something he hadn't told her yet. She was sure of it now.

"You did give him half ownership. Maybe he would like to have friends come to visit."

"That's not the issue, or not all of it anyway. He's afraid of boredom, _Maman_. To be fair, he has good reasons for it." Dana looked down at her gloved hands. "I've tried to help . . . but if he really does need someone else . . ." She lifted her gaze to the slope beyond the fence. "And yet I don't want another person here."

"You always did have trouble sharing, even as a child." _Maman_ sat next to her. "You weren't greedy or selfish, but you liked to keep to yourself. You rarely talked about anything."

"Yes." Dana looked down at her hands. "Like Papa. I wish I wasn't that way."

"Can a cat change its nature?"

"Human beings are capable of change, though we like to pretend we're not."

"That's what I'd expect you to say." _Maman_ reached out, touched her cheek. "Take good care of your man, and yourself too."

"I try." No one responded. She was alone. _But then I always was_. She looked out over the garden, admired the sunlight on fresh dew, the soft green of vines and bushes, and beyond the fence, the deeper colors of high summer. Would it be so difficult to share all this with someone besides Greg?

 _It seems the philosophy of the day is 'à chacun son goût'_. She stood and made her way back to where the empty harvest basket waited to be filled.

An hour and a half later she returned to the house with a full basket, two scratches on her right arm she'd acquired from a battle with a thistle, and a glow made up of equal parts mild sunburn and satisfaction. As she entered the kitchen she found James at one of the cabinets with the door open. It was clear he'd just woken; his dark hair was ruffled from sleep, and he yawned as he peered into the cupboard.

"Good morning," Dana said. James jumped and turned toward her.

"G-good morning." He closed the cabinet door. "You're—you're up early."

"Yes, and I could use a cup of coffee too." She set the basket on the counter and took the french press from the dish rack. "Have a seat, it'll be a few minutes before the kettle heats up."

"Um . . . we have company."

Dana followed James's line of vision in time to see a small yellow spider descend the side of the basket and land on the counter. She set down the press and walked over, swept the spider into her hand and took it to the kitchen door. "My apologies for the inconvenience, little one." She set it on the step and watched it scuttle away before she returned to her task. "One of the hazards of country life. Sometimes you bring in visitors without meaning to."

"I can sympathize." James wore a rueful expression. "Maybe you should tell me the same thing and send me on my way."

Dana chuckled. "You were worried about a friend. And curious too." She put warm water in the press.

"I should've known he was playing me, he practically used flash cards." James leaned against the counter and ran a hand over his hair. "It's just . . . we haven't seen each other much in the last few months, and I know you're taking care of him—well, as much as he'll allow, but—"

"James." She waited until he looked at her. "Do you prefer milk or cream?"

After a moment he smiled a little. "Skim if you've got it, otherwise black is fine. Thanks."

Dana nodded. "You're welcome."


	6. Chapter 6

_You've got a chance to put things right_

 _so how's it going to be?_

 _August 17th_

It's the start of what portends to be long, hot summer day, filled with sunshine and warm breezes. The setting appears idyllic, but appearances can deceive.

Wilson sits in an easy chair on the back porch, cup of coffee in hand. He and Gardener made a delightful breakfast a little while earlier. They worked together in the kitchen as if they'd been doing it all their lives, and chatted in an amiable fashion as well. The result was delicious, but Greg won't allow himself to be sidetracked; he's sure Gardener will lose her cool sooner or later, and send Wilson off to Princeton. It'll be his turn after that.

"I can hear you analyzing from ten feet away." Wilson sips his coffee. "It's a nice day, why don't we just accept it and move on?"

Before he can reply, Gardener enters with two mugs. She offers one to Greg.

"Flavored with rat poison, no doubt." He takes it anyway and squints at it, tries a sip. It's the way he likes it. "You'll probably spend the rest of the day digging a hole to plant me in."

"It's too hot to work that hard." Gardener takes a seat across the patio from Wilson. "I've planned a trip to the farmer's market this morning. If anyone wants to go with me they're more than welcome, but it's fine to say no." She looks at Greg, then away. And that's how he knows he's been rumbled. She doesn't have to say anything else.

"I'd be interested," Wilson says. He sounds almost cheerful—an affront so egregious, Greg can't let it pass.

"You have bald-headed kids and the harpy of PPTH waiting for you. No time for dawdling in a market copping feels off the melons and chatting up the underage clerks." Greg slurps more coffee and directs his next remark to Gardener. "You came here to get away from it all, not take day trips into town to see the tall buildings."

Wilson puts on an expression of affront. "First of all, it's Saturday. Secondly, I don't cop feels off produce or waste my time on teenagers. I doubt you can say the same." Oooh, that's a nasty little swipe.

Gardener sets down her cup. "I came here to rest and relax any way I see fit. You may do as you wish, I just made the offer."

"I detect a note of irritation . . ." Greg ignores Wilson's warning look.

"You're annoying me, yes." She says it without heat. "I'll leave in an hour or so." With that she picks up her cup and exits the porch.

"Nice going," Wilson mutters.

"You don't get to have an opinion about any of this. You shouldn't be here."

"You're the one who suggested you were being abused!"

"Oh, come on! You really think she'd beat the shit out of me and I'd put up with it?" Greg pushes away memories that always crowd in when this subject is broached, the ones he never tells anyone about, except Gardener. And even she doesn't know the worst. "Admit it. You were curious about this place and decided to check it out."

"I didn't even know she had a country house until you practically waved the damn deed under my nose and dared me to come over!" Wilson runs a hand over his face. "I'd better leave."

"Yeah, run back to Princeton now that you've caused all this trouble."

Wilson stares at him as if he has two heads. "So now _I_ caused this?" He gets to his feet. "I'm partly responsible, but you started it. See you around."

Only after Wilson's said goodbye to Gardener and he's driven down the lane in that ridiculous station wagon does it occur to Greg that he's put himself in a bad situation, with just two choices: he leaves too, or he finds some way to apologize that isn't an out-and-out 'I'm sorry'. Although there is a temporary solution . . .

"Going back to my place to get some files," he says when Gardener comes into the living room. She looks at him, a long, considered stare that makes him squirm inside.

"All right," she says, and goes out the door. It shuts behind her with a quiet click.

He catches up with her in the driveway. "That's it. You won't ask when I'll be back—"

She swings around to face him. Now she's mad, at long last; her cheeks are flushed and she actually glares at him, her grey gaze full of fire. A part of his brain notes she's sexy as hell when she's all het up. Another part knows it's better to keep that insight to himself at the moment, unless he wants to bring down a shitload of wrath. It might be fun to piss her off in the short term, but it would be counterproductive otherwise, to say the least. "I have already said that you stay or go, your choice. Badgering me to get the reaction you want—bringing someone to our private place-" She draws in a breath, and now there are tears in her eyes. "If you'd just asked I could have helped you with distractions. How many times must I say you don't need to play games with me?" She wipes her cheek, a quick, rough gesture. "Enough. Do as you like." She gets in the car, starts it up, and pulls away much too fast. Greg watches her fly down the driveway, and realizes when she's at the end of it that he has no way to get to town for his bike.

The Lyft driver isn't best pleased to take him into New Hope on a Saturday morning. He has to thread his way through hordes of pedestrians and wait out tourists who ignore green lights to consult Google maps on their phones. But they make it to the VFW lot after a time, and Greg is able to retrieve his ride.

The journey to Princeton is a scenic one, as he makes his way through quiet little towns along the Delaware River and heads into New Jersey. He doesn't see any of it though; he is preoccupied with the problem at hand, the difficulty he's created. Now he's come up against Gardener's limits. With all the pushing he's done she'll be even angrier than she might have been otherwise.

The apartment is quiet when he enters. As he stumps around to pick up his work, he notes how clean it is under the usual clutter of journals, books and papers. There are no empty beer bottles, pizza boxes, takeaway coffee cups, dirty laundry piled around furniture and behind doors; the place even smells nice. It's still his, but Gardener's presence is everywhere. Sometimes he forgets that. He's gotten used to her subtle orderliness.

He sits down, sets his backpack on the coffee table, and stares at the fireplace. A basket of pine cones sits on the hearth next to a stack of applewood trims and another basket of kindling—sticks Gardener's picked up at the cottage over the summer, to dry out for use on the first cold night of late autumn. Winter is not far off now, though they still have golden days ahead to enjoy.

The compulsion to mess with peoples heads is an old one. He can't remember a time in his life when it wasn't there, an impulse he doesn't often set aside. Games are an excellent tool for discovery of the truth. Most idiots have no idea how to play, nor do they understand the main principle: you change the rules as you go along. That keeps you in control, and everyone else confused. The problem is that he's no longer sure he knows how to turn off this function. Maybe he never knew in the first place.

He shouldn't go back to Pennsylvania. He's already ruined the start of her vacation. There's a fair chance he'll do the same with the rest of it. And yet to stay here is cowardice, he knows it.

"Romance ninja," he mutters under his breath, and levers himself up off the couch. Time to head back to Pennsy and try to fix the mess he's made.

By the time he reaches Bucks county, he's thought of and rejected a number of gestures meant to make amends. He's not the type to bring flowers and candy, and he's pretty sure she wouldn't be impressed with any bottle of wine he brought home from the state store. Not that she's a snob, she's downed a fair amount of lesser vintages without a quiver, but he knows she prefers Grand Cru—she just doesn't say so.

He still hasn't figured it out by the time he gets back to the cottage. Gardener's in residence, her car's in the driveway; no doubt she's curled up with a book in an attempt to expunge the memory of the last couple of days.

When Greg enters the house, it's quiet. Dust motes dance in the filtered sunlight as it slants through a west window. The place smells like herbs and citrus, clean and sharp. Cicadas buzz in the distance, just audible under the hum of a floor fan. He follows the sound to the back porch and finds his quarry settled in an easy chair, glass of wine in hand. When he comes in she glances at him but says nothing. He can't tell if she's angry, fed up, disgusted, indifferent. So he sits down in the chair opposite hers, and waits. Well, okay—actually he fidgets and plays with his cane and avoids any direct eye contact, until at last she speaks.

"Why do you continue to expect me to treat you the way John House did?"

As usual, she goes straight for the jugular. Greg doesn't look at her. "I don't."

"Apparently you do." She swirls the wine in the glass, a slow, contemplative movement. "I've given you plenty of evidence to the contrary, but you refuse to accept it."

"I told you." He feels a surge of something like anger, but his hands shake. "You knew I'd hurt you and you decided to stay anyway."

Gardener sets down the glass and sits up. "There's a difference between acknowledgment of a truth, and using it as an excuse to do exactly what you've always done." She rests her gaze on him, steady, direct. No fire there now, just cool, implacable reason. "Choice in action requires conscious and continual effort. Reaction is easy, but it locks you into old patterns."

The fact that he's thought about this and come to the same conclusion doesn't offer any comfort. "Bullshit. That's psycho-babble claptrap."

"No it is not. It's the heart of the matter and you know it. You shy away from the conclusion because you don't believe you can choose another course, when you've already done so and been successful." She pauses. "What did he do that you haven't told me about?"

"Tie me up first." The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them. "I'll . . . I'll try to tell you." Gardener doesn't answer. At last she nods.

And that's how he ends up in the garden, naked and bound to the old kitchen chair, as the late afternoon sun no doubt creates melanomas on his bare skin, though there's sunscreen on just about every square inch of him, bald spot included. He's been offered a hat but he appears ridiculous enough, no doubt; a little exposure at this time of day won't do any harm. Gardener stands before him, flogger in hand. She wears shorts and a tank top, her thick fair hair loose. She's got a little summer color now, and it looks good on her. "Safe word," she says, but doesn't offer her usual smile.

"Baker. It's not fair. You should be naked too."

"You will be silent unless I command you to speak." Her voice is cold, autocratic; her accent is stronger now. A chill of unwelcome surprise goes down Greg's spine. Maybe he hadn't bargained on this. Maybe he'd thought she would offer a little slap and tickle and they'd make love, then go in and watch the game.

"Yes m'lady," he says in a not-quite whisper. A moment later the handle of the flogger rests under his chin and nudges his head up. It's not a gentle gesture, though she doesn't hurt him.

" _Silence_." She takes the flogger away. He watches her as anxiety rises up inside him, a flood that threatens the ancient dam deep within, makes its walls shake, even as they hold firm—for now at least. "I will ask questions. You will answer them truthfully and without hesitation, do I make myself clear?"

He nods and looks at the ground. His hands twist in their silk bonds; he feels the earth under the soles of his feet. The cicadas whine and fade as leaves rustle in a soft, warm breeze.

" _Gregory!_ " She snaps out his name and he straightens in a reflex so old he can't remember its origin. "Pay attention!" She steps closer and he fights the urge to pull back. "I can see why your father lost patience with you," she sounds contemptuous now. "What did you do to make him angry? Tell me!"

He knows this is an act, that she plays a part; of course he understands that on a rational, intellectual level. But another part doesn't know it, and that's who will have to answer her. He draws in a breath and speaks.


	7. Chapter 7

_lay down your arms now_

 _and put us beyond doubt_

 _so reach out it's not too far away_

 _don't mess around now, don't delay . . ._

"Everything I did made him angry."

Dana paused for a moment to strengthen her resolve. The man in the chair held his gaze steady on her, his eyes wide and anxious. He was afraid, she could see it in the way he tested his bonds, how his throat moved as he swallowed. But he waited, ready for whatever she would do next.

 _He can't see how far he's come . . . how much progress he's made._ She remembered their first meeting, how he'd resisted her every step of the way. And yet he'd stayed then too, and the times after as well. She would honor that raw courage in the best way she knew, with her own skill at helping others find healing within themselves. "I think you've been holding out on me." She put a chill menace in her tone. Greg flinched and dropped his gaze. "Little boys aren't allowed to keep secrets. Sit up!" She snapped out the last two words. He obeyed without hesitation, his breath unsteady. "Tell me what you've been hiding. You may speak."

"Nothing." It came out as a rough, defiant growl. Dana advanced on him and held his chin, forced him to look at her.

"You know what happens to liars, Gregory." A tremor shook him, but he remained silent. His vivid gaze blazed up at her, both furious and pleading. "You'd better talk."

"He said—" Greg broke away from her grasp.

"What did John say?" Silence. She leaned down and glared at him. " _Tell._ "

"He—he told me not to."

"And I'm ordering you to do so. You'd better be truthful."

" _Fuck_ you." Greg glared back. She would have to tread with care now; John House hadn't been averse to the use of force, but she wouldn't employ it. To do so would break the bond of trust they'd forged with so much difficulty and patience over their months together.

"Gregory . . ." Dana softened her voice, raised the pitch just a bit. She'd never heard Blythe House speak, but she'd probably been soft-spoken, almost girlish in her speech patterns; from what Greg had mentioned in various sessions, she was passive and meek in her husband's presence. "Please, Greg. Tell me what happened. I want to know what you did."

He lowered his head, but not before Dana saw him shiver. "I didn't . . ." His hands twisted against the silk ties. "Didn't do anything."

"You must have done _something_. You know your father only wants what's best for you." She was careful to put both doubt and a hint of condescension in her words. It had the desired effect.

" _Fuck_ that. He wanted what was convenient for him. Mom always agreed with anything he did."

"How did he punish you this time?" Dana made her inquiry neutral, gentle, but still with that hint of impatience.

"Of course she didn't know about it, she was out of town to visit Oma . . ."

"Gregory, look at me." With reluctance he straightened and let his gaze rest on a point just above her right shoulder. "I want to know what happened." Dana put a bit of steel in her voice now. "Tell me this instant."

He closed his eyes, looked down again. She watched him struggle, and forced herself to wait. He needed this, needed to break the wall of memory and fear on his own terms, not hers.

"He . . . he said I spent too much time at the piano and it was turning me into a queer." The words came out in a rough, angry mutter. "He wanted to toughen me up . . . I wasn't soft, dammit, I liked sports—any time we stayed longer than a couple of months in one place I joined teams, baseball, soccer . . . but it wasn't enough." He fell silent for a few moments. "He . . . he never understood. It's possible to like both making music and kicking a stupid fucking ball around a court, they're not mutually exclusive."

"Gregory House, stop stalling and tell me what happened!" Dana put a sharp edge in the command. Greg flinched and hunched his shoulders.

"He dumped me. Out in the country. Told me I was on my own and he'd be back for me at the same place in five days. Then he drove off. I could hear—" He stopped, swallowed. "I could hear him laughing."

Absolute shock flooded her, tightened her throat, made it hard to speak. "How old were you?"

"Eight. Old enough for a manhood test, apparently." His toes dug into the soft earth.

"Go on."

"By . . . by the second night I climbed a tree and stayed there most of the next day, until I got too thirsty." Greg squinted at the ground. "If you pay attention, you can find what you need. There was a little spring a mile or so from the dropoff point. I followed some animal tracks to where it was green. Didn't know what was edible there and had no desire to kill anything, even if I'd had the tools."

"You had no food for a week." She kept her words neutral.

"There was a homestead near the water, a dirt farm with a bunch of goats and a few children running around. One of the women gave me a bowl of some starchy stuff that tasted like wallpaper paste. I ate the whole thing and ended up sick as a dog for two days."

"You couldn't ask for help from them."

Greg made a noise that could have been a laugh. "That would only prove his point."

"What did you do for the rest of the time?"

"Hung out. Drank from the spring, slept in the shade during the day, watched the stars at night. Counted the sunrises."

"And when you showed up at the dropoff point?"

"By sunset I was sure he wouldn't come back. But he showed up right before last light. Told me to get in, drove back to the base. Took my report before he stuck me in the tub and scrubbed me raw." He paused. "I got hamburgers for dinner. Puked up everything about fifteen minutes later. He thought that was hilarious. He said he'd have to feed me grasshoppers from now on." The bitter fury latent in the flat voice made Dana's heart ache. "I ended up in the infirmary the next day. He told them I'd been out exploring and gotten lost, and it had taken him a couple of days to find me. That explained the dehydration and bug bites and sunburn, and diarrhea. It helped that I was a skinny kid anyway."

"Someone must have asked questions." She saw him in her mind's eye, a scrawny boy with bright blue eyes in a sunburned face, silent and withdrawn.

"Times were different back then. Anyway, Dad . . . Dad was the big man on campus. No one would have said anything. He . . . he would have handed their asses to them." He drew in an unsteady breath. "B-baker. Dana . . . baker. _Please_." She could barely hear him. She moved forward, untied his wrists, his ankles. When she put her arms around him he gave a sort of shudder, and buried his face in her hair. They stayed that way for some time.

"How are you?" She rubbed his back.

"Don't know." He sighed. "Never . . . never talked to anyone about this before."

Eventually they went to the house. Greg moved with caution, but Dana sensed it wasn't pain as much as exhaustion. When they went inside, she guided him to the bedroom and found a clean tee shirt and briefs; she helped him set up the TENS unit and turned on the floor fan and the lamp as he eased onto the bed. When she sat next to him he looked up at her but said nothing. Dana took his hand in hers, and waited.

"Mom didn't say anything." He sounded weary now. "Dad hadn't washed my clothes, so she must have figured something out of the ordinary happened . . . but she never brought it up."

"And so you felt abandoned for a second time." Greg turned his head away. It was clear he could go no further, at least for the rest of the evening.

She brought him some dinner, made sure he took his meds. When she climbed onto the bed next to him, he glared at her. "Smother mother."

"I'm concerned, sue me." She took her book from the night stand. "I read, you eat."

"Huh." But he made no further objections, and fell asleep after a second beer and a visit to the bathroom. Dana read for a while, too wound up to relax at first, but she drifted off at last.

She woke on a sudden awareness of a muffled groan or gasp. She rolled over to find Greg seated on the edge of the bed. Even in the soft light she could see he trembled. Without a word she got up and came to him. He gestured at his overnight bag.

"Ativan," he muttered. She dug in the bag, found the bottle. He dry-swallowed the pill and coughed, lay back. Dana sat down next to him. She said nothing, only waited. "Dad was right," he said after a long silence.

There were several ways to approach this statement. Dana obeyed her intuition and turned her face to his. "Tell me."

"So you can say I'm full of shit." Anger and exhaustion gave his words a harsh edge.

"No. I'm listening."

He said nothing for a time. "This place . . . it's nothing like where Dad dumped me."

"But it makes you anxious all the same." Dana took his hand in hers. His fingers curled around her palm. "Do you want to go back to Princeton?"

"Pointless. We're here, we'll stay here." Greg hesitated. "He said I was weak."

"Your father said a number of things about you that were and are still untrue." She stroked his wrist with her thumb, a slow, gentle circle. "Fear is not an indication of weakness. It's a natural behavior for mammals, and primates are prey animals as well as predators. You had legitimate reasons to be fearful, then and now. What you do with that fear is what counts. You've come out here with me several times when you've had the option to refuse."

"Maybe I'm just trying to keep you from leaving." Greg's hold tightened a bit.

"You believe if you tell me that spending time in a rural area makes you anxious, I'll walk away. I won't."

After a while she returned to her side of the bed and curled up next to Greg. He didn't object, but he also didn't touch her. She knew he was overwhelmed at this point; any further stimulus would only cause his anxiety levels to rise. They lay together for a while in the darkness. After a time Greg's breathing rate slowed and deepened. Dana moved closer and leaned her head against his arm. He made a little noise but didn't pull away.

 _How could his father have done that? Left a child alone and helpless?_ She knew the answer before she'd finished the second question. John House had wanted to toughen up the boy left in his care. But it was also probable he wanted to punish the child for not being his legitimate son. It didn't matter that such a feeling made no sense; human beings were capable of good-sized helpings of contrary behavior and lack of critical thinking for the flimsiest of reasons, or even none at all. At any rate, Greg's putative father had done what he considered his duty, and never understood he'd made a poor situation even worse.

 _Even if he had known, he wouldn't have cared._ Dana felt a surge of anger. She did her best to set it aside; it wouldn't help with the current problem, in fact it would get in her way. It was also all too easy to feel fury at two parents who'd been given a child they'd never have understood, even if they'd been inclined to try. Sometimes it just happened that way.

 _Enough now. We'll work on this in the morning, if he's ready._ She closed her eyes, breathed in Greg's scent, and settled into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

_(Many thanks for reading and reviews/comments, it's much appreciated as always. Another story is in the works and I hope to post it in the near future. -Brig)_

 _see the world_

 _find an old-fashioned girl_

 _and when all's been said and done_

 _the things that are given, not won_

 _are the things that you want . . ._

 _August 18th_

By the time he wakes up, it's late morning. Greg opens one eye and makes a first assessment of his environment. The room is lit by the lamp on the night stand, and he's alone. But not for long; even as he opens the other eye, Gardener enters with a butler's tray in her hands. Coffee, croissants, jam, boiled eggs . . . his mouth waters at the sight. He sits up as she perches on the bed and sets down the tray. Without comment she pours two cups of coffee, then gets her own breakfast.

They munch and sip without conversation, but it's a companionable silence. He devours the lion's share of croissants and eggs, aware he's ravenous. Sessions always make him hungry. This one . . . he shies away from thinking about it. Sooner or later they'll have to dissect what he revealed, and he isn't sure he can do it. He's held that secret a long time. It's made raw places in him, where sharp edges cut over and over into scarred flesh. He can still hear his dad laugh as he put the jeep in gear and drove away . . . He takes a bite of croissant that now tastes of dust and ashes; it requires two swallows of coffee to get it down, and after that he's done.

Gardener says nothing when he sets his cup on the tray and pushes the plate away from him. She just tidies everything and heads back to the kitchen. Greg seizes the opportunity to use the bathroom. He takes a long hot shower, scrubs off every inch of his yesterday self, as if that will stuff the memories back into their lockbox, and sets up the TENS unit before he puts on clean clothes. If he has to face an interrogation, he wants to be comfortable to some degree at least.

When he enters the kitchen, Gardener has her hat on. "I feel like a walk today." She offers him a slight smile. "Care to join me?"

"Uh, cripple here." He leans on his cane for effect.

"I don't plan to go far. I can give you some support if you like."

Greg eyes her. Walking holds no appeal, but the chance to cop a feel while he's doing it makes up for that a little. And he knows she's got something in mind or she wouldn't have asked him. He nods, she comes forward to slip an arm around his waist, and they're off.

"What's the point of this?" he says, as they move past the garden. "Feeling a sudden urge to tour your little empire, that's a bit suspicious given yesterday's events."

"I'd like you to know where things are here." She smells of citrus and lavender, her hair held back in a simple braid; she looks about twenty years old, with a few freckles scattered across her nose. Her arm feels good around him, her hand on his hip.

"I don't have to know, since I'm not planning any expeditions."

"Even if you never set foot on the back property line again, you'll have a map in that clever brain of yours."

"So you're planning to dump me too." He's only half in jest. Gardener comes to a stop.

" _No_." Just that one word, flat, uncompromising. Her fierceness both comforts and amuses him.

"Sure about that, are you." He's careful to keep the laugh out of his words.

"Yes." She caresses his hip. "I'm sure."

They continue on, but now this feels more like a simple walk than a field-trip session.

The property line is at the base of a long, sloping hill. There's a little creek that meanders along it, a picture-postcard of a stream, all rocks and eddies with a soft, musical burble that sounds sweet in the still morning air. He looks around in unwilling amazement at the simple beauty of the place.

"Admit it, you had this delivered."

She chuckles and grins up at him. "Damn, busted." Her grey eyes are bright with laughter—the first time he's seen that in a while.

"Hope you didn't buy retail, they charge a fortune for this kind of thing." He pokes at a rock with his cane. "Nice realistic details though."

"Let's test it out." She lets go of him and kicks off her Birkenstocks, then proceeds to wade into the water barefoot. Greg watches her for a few moments. Anxiety clutches at him.

"There could be broken glass in there," he snaps. "Or a rusty can lid. Bed springs. Anything."

"There could be, but there isn't. I had it cleaned up a couple of years ago." She stops, bends down a bit. "There are fish now, little ones. And spring peepers after the snow melts and it starts to get warm."

"Fish and frogs. Great." Greg stares down at his sneakers. With a mental sigh he toes off first one shoe, then the other.

It's been some time since he's felt grass under his feet. It's an odd sensation, both strange and familiar. He remembers the back yard of the base house at Cherry Point, lush with plentiful rains, soft as velvet after he'd cut it with an old push mower the previous tenants had left behind . . . In some trepidation he moves forward, dips a toe in the water. It's not as cold as he thought it would be. The stream rushes over his arch, a subtle tickle. He steps forward, gets his footing. Gardener splashes across to him. She is a charming picture in cutoffs and a tank top—one of his, he notes in wry amusement—with her beat-up old garden hat perched on her fair hair. "We should have brought fishing rods."

"To catch a few sunnies?" He squints into the tree canopy overhead. "Wrong time of day, anyway. They bite best before sunrise."

"It's a good excuse to spend time outside. We could bring a couple of camp chairs and some lunch." Gardener puts her arm through his. "I've thought about putting in a path with a rail—"

"You don't have to accommodate the cripple." Greg looks out over the little creek.

"I'm not getting any younger, you know. A pathway with some wide steps and rails would make things easier when it's hard to get up and down hills."

"Planning ahead, that's very efficient of you. Don't bother on my account, I probably won't be here long enough to make use of it."

Gardener looks up at him. Her expression is serious now, though she doesn't seem angry. She doesn't answer him right away. When she does, it's nothing like what he expects her to say. "I've been meaning to talk with you about this for some time now. I believe you may have oppositional defiant disorder."

Her words drop like stones inside him. He stares at her as several replies fill his mind at once. "So you've decided to slap a bogus DSM label on me at long last. Well, besides the asshole classification."

"It's not a label. It's a guidepost, nothing more." She shifts her gaze to the stream bed, moves an outsized pebble with her toe. "You don't fit all the criteria, and that's normal. You're an individual. But it makes sense to me, given your childhood in an abusive household. The harsh treatment you received from your parents probably developed your symptoms to a greater degree far earlier than they would have otherwise." She takes his hand in hers. "It's part of who you are. I don't want to push it or you away. I'm trying to know you better so I can help you find your own healing, if you want it. This is not about changing you, it's about comprehension." Her fingers tighten on his a bit. "I don't classify you as an asshole. You can be a pain in the ass, but that's a slightly different location."

He laughs a little, as she meant him to, but he's also surprised to feel the edge on the knife of memory grow dull—just a bit, but it's there all the same. Still, he has to challenge her. "Comprehension."

"Yes. When you understand what's going on to whatever degree possible, you can make informed choices about how you'll act." She pauses. "You know by looking at my own file that I've been diagnosed with clinical depression." Greg nods. That had surprised him when he'd first discovered it; she'd never exhibited any of the outward symptoms, had never withdrawn or seemed distant. "It took some time, but I accepted it finally and decided to do whatever I could to make my condition less intrusive. If you like, you can do the same. It's up to you."

"Even if it's a correct assessment, it won't go away." He looks down at his feet. "You can't medicate it out of existence."

"I wouldn't want that. Your defiance and strength kept you alive during a time when you needed every weapon at your disposal. It's also served you well in other areas. Where it doesn't is a good place to begin, if you like."

"You mean in relationships. Us."

"If that's where you want to start, then yes. But that's your choice, not mine." When he lifts his gaze to hers in disbelief, she smiles a little. "You might have noticed that despite your attempts to make me angry enough to leave, I haven't done so." Her smile deepens. "At least not since that first time. I didn't know you as well then as I do now." She tilts her head. "I won't leave, Greg."

The hope deep within strengthens just a bit despite his efforts to ignore it. "Because . . ."

"Because I choose not to. And because I love you, even when you do your best to drive me insane." She brings his hand to her lips, brushes a kiss over his knuckles. "Shall we go back?"

As they climb the gentle slope, Greg notices that the cottage looks different from this perspective. It's settled atop the little ridge as if it's always been there, with the lawn and garden laid out around it like jewels, green and lush.

"Next year I'll plant some chamomile in a test patch." Gardener pauses for a moment, tips her hat back to survey the lawn. "If it survives, I'll replace the grass with it. It seems silly to waste gas mowing when we could have flowers instead." She gives his hip a caress. "I'd like to stay for a week in the fall. There will be plenty of black walnuts to collect, if we get to them before the squirrels do."

"You'll have bees everywhere," he points out. "And black walnuts are a mess. They're impossible to open too."

"I happen to like bees. They treat you well if you do the same for them. The neighbor down the road has a machine he made to crack nuts, something he invented. I think you'd enjoy talking with him about it." They start to walk once more. She matches her steps to his as they come up over the modest crest of the slope. "Would you like a mid-morning snack? I picked up a few things at the market."

"What kind of things?" he asks with some suspicion.

"I bought those espresso cookies you like, and raspberry-chocolate bars." She peeks at him, one corner of her mouth quirked up. "You were worried I'd bring home vegan energy raw balls or something."

"Let vegan men have their balls. Cookies taste better anyway."

"Speaking from personal experience?" She squeaks when he brings her close and kisses that smirk right off her face.

They take a pleasant little detour before elevenses, however. The bedroom is still dark, filled with the last of the morning's cool air and the sound of cicadas. They enter and leave the door open—there's no one to invade their privacy, after all—and hold each other close for a moment, content just to be together. Then Dana moves back a bit and takes off her top, turns around. "Release me, please." He can hear the smile in her words. Greg obliges, eases the straps down, lets the bra drop to the floor. Her shorts follow the bra a few moments later, and she stands naked in front of him.

"Tie me up." Her grey eyes glimmer with anticipation—and delight, he sees it and feels that same bewildered joy he always knows when she shows her trust in him, a trust he doesn't deserve, but he'll take the rewards all the same.

Soon enough she's spreadeagle on the bed. She watches and says nothing as he removes his clothes, but when he sits beside her she sighs softly and her features relax a bit.

"What?" he says, intrigued by this behavior. "Tell me."

Dana doesn't speak right away. "I never thought . . . never thought I'd have this with anyone in my private life," she says at last. "Never thought anyone would . . . want this."

 _Reciprocal offering_ , he thinks, and feels a little prod of anger that she would shove her practice across their love life . . . until he looks into her eyes and sees a sort of anxious hesitation there. This isn't professional, not at all. Again, this is her trust in him, her willingness to open her own old pain and let him see she's been hurt too.

So he gives her healing in the only way he can; he stretches out beside her and turns her face to his, presses kisses to the corner of her mouth and then lower, to her breasts, still lower to her belly, and lower, where she opens to him without hesitation. He loves the taste of her on his tongue, the way she makes little broken noises as he brings her to orgasm, slow and sure, how her thighs tremble as he caresses them afterward. And when he looses her silk bonds and eases under her, she takes him in and puts her hands over his as they move together, until he finds release and pleasure floods through him, his groan loud in the quiet room.

A quick shower together, and without bothering about clothing they end up at the couch with the tv on. "This isn't what you're here for," he says. She sits next to him; he has his legs over a pillow across her thighs, a comfortable position they've found helps prevent spasms later on.

"Why do you say that?" She nibbles her raspberry bar and looks oh, so innocent, her lips still a little swollen from his kisses. He could take her again right here and now.

"Aren't you the devious one, deflecting my statement with a question."

" _Je ne sais pas ce que tu veux dire_." She's amused, that much is clear.

Greg rolls his eyes. "Think you're so smart, showing off your French. And by the way, you know exactly what I mean."

"Your French is just as good." She offers him a bite of her cookie. "I like tv. I watch it at times, you've seen me do it. How I spend my time here isn't either-or. That's fine." She pulls up the on-screen menu. "There's a game tonight, isn't there?"

"There's usually a game on somewhere." He settles back into the cushions. "Let's go see the neighbor tomorrow. But with clothes on."

Gardener glances at him and chuckles. "All right." She finishes off her cookie and dusts her fingers. "NatGeo or Hulu?"

It is disconcerting to realize he's content to be where he is, and in the company of someone who knows him and stays anyway. It's a situation he'd never expected, but now that it's come to him he'll accept it. He takes her free hand in his. "Hulu. Let's go fishing. Maybe we'll find something bigger than sunnies."

 _Je ne sais pas ce que tu veux dire_ —I don't know what you mean

' _See the World', Gomez_

' _Sprouting Potatoes',_ The Martian _soundtrack_


End file.
